Checkmate
by ba.carpenter
Summary: Voldemort reflects on the game of strategy in his final moments. Canon.
1. Reminiscing

He'd always liked chess.

He was enchanted by the rules, the order. He was obsessed with the strategy. But, most of all, he was enamored with the sacrifices necessary to win. Each time he'd played, he'd thrived under the all-encompassing pressure when it seemed (to the untrained eye) that no chance remained of his triumph.

Long before he'd learned of Legilimency, before he even knew why he was able to do things other kids couldn't, he was an expert at reading people. If it was ever possible for him to experience love firsthand, that must be what he'd felt for the power of watching his opponents virtually taste victory, completely oblivious to the fact that they were playing right into his hand.

He'd always chosen black.

Most said it was because he was a dark, brooding character (of course, they never said it to his face – they didn't have to), but in truth, he chose black because white moved first. He liked to answer – let them make mistakes like a teenager who's been caught in a lie and can't shut his mouth to keep from digging himself into an even deeper hole – he'd sit back, unreadable, as they'd move. _THEN_ he'd respond.

It was always the queen.

His challengers couldn't engineer a plan that varied from their predecessors. Time after time, game after game, he'd watch the same events unfold.

They'd start out somewhat recklessly, moving quickly, sacrificing pieces. _Eh, it's just a pawn, after all._ But as the game progressed, they'd become more careful, more measured – after all, nobody wanted to lose a rook – until they were so cautious, so protective, their queen was more guarded than their king.

And the little white king and queen would watch, helpless, as their fellows were slaughtered, one-by-one, because their puppeteers couldn't foresee a future for the king without its mate. _The romantics._

Meanwhile, he'd use her, the ultimate tool.

While his adversaries had eyes only for their queen's protection, he would skillfully set into effect a series of events that would lead to his own queen's demise. He'd set it up perfectly. Because when they'd look at the board and see that it was their queen or his, they'd strike.

And he would look into his opponent's eyes, their haughty, victorious eyes. Then, as he'd move a single piece on the board, he would quietly utter the one word they weren't expecting.

"...Checkmate."

He would slightly quirk one eyebrow but remain otherwise impassive as they experienced a barrage of emotions: confusion, incredulous amusement, then confusion again as they studied the board. Then came the bewilderment. And, lastly, as they'd helplessly reach up and flick over their king, he would revel in seeing his favorite emotion of all cross their features: defeat.


	2. Back to the Present

And, now, his queen had fallen.

It should be so perfect. Bellatrix was a tool to be sacrificed at the perfect time. But an anger unlike any he'd felt before snaked its way up his body, and with it a brand-new emotion. What _was_ this feeling? ...he _HATED_ it, _despised_ it, with the burning passion of one who had only life remaining – no soul.

...It was _fear_.

Though he'd never had the misfortune of feeling it himself, he'd seen it in enough of his enemies' eyes to identify the signs, the symptoms. He grimaced as he assessed them: shortness of breath, sweat collecting at his temples, and _**MERLIN!**__, w_as his wand hand _SHAKING_?!

It didn't make sense. Dumbledore was supposed to be the white king and he, the black. It DIDN'T make _SENSE_! How could that _boy_ be standing before him?! Once Dumbledore was dead, the game should have been over! What kind of game _was_ this, where there _were_ no rules, _was _no order?

And just as he'd recognized the symptoms of fear, he knew what he'd find when he again met the eyes of his foe. Had it only been mere seconds? As he turned his gaze toward his opposing king (_The Boy Who Lived_, he inwardly sneered), he anticipated the boy's expression. Pride. Self-righteousness. Victory.

Finally, he met Harry's eyes. He had his mother's eyes. How many times had he looked into these eyes? But there **was** no pride there. No self-righteousness. No victory. There was only that one emotion he himself had never felt for another human being.

_Love._

This boy,

Who should have died 16 years prior, at Voldemort's own hand, just as he'd killed the boy's parents,

Who should have died at the hands of Quirrell,

Who should have died in the Chamber of Secrets,

Who should have died at the kiss of a legion of dementors,

Who should have died in the graveyard when he, Voldemort, the most feared of all wizards, regained his power,

Who should have died at the hands of the Death Eaters in the Department of Mysteries,

Who should have died at the hands of Snape, who thought all along he was the most-trusted servant but was merely a pawn to be disposed of,

_THIS...__** BOY... **_should be crumpled at the feet of Lord Voldemort, groveling for mercy that would be withheld!

But in his eyes was love for those he strove to protect. And, worse even than that,

In his eyes was pity.

And that was when Voldemort knew that the game was over.

Because the Potter boy didn't have to say, "Checkmate," for him to know that he'd lost.


End file.
